Stockholm Syndrome
by jadebellamy
Summary: Just because they need each other, doesn't mean they're going to play by the others rules. In the end, they'll get what they want; regardless of who stands in their way. Slash El!Sands. Rated for language and slight themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning: **Please note, this **will** contain slash between Sands and El. I'll place warnings on chapters and such, but I have warned thee. It's likely to get heavy in later chapters as well, but I shall warn you. Also, this story will contain heavy language- but if you've watched OUATiM then you'd have gathered that.

**Rated for language and reference of male-male contact in this chapter.**

**Stockholm Syndrome**

_**Definition: **__a psychological response in which the hostage shows feelings of loyalty to the hostage-taker, regardless of the danger or risk they are placed in..._

**Chapter One.  
**If you thought about it, and had that sick sense of humor, than Sands supposed it really was funny- at the very least it was ludicrously amusing. But however you saw it, in the sick fucked up realistic way that it was, or the doped up optimistic way, they had survived and to Sands, it was all about survival. Who was in control and who was throwing what shapes and setting them up.

He'll admit now (though only to himself, thank you very much) that he wasn't entirely in control to begin with. That his aim was a little to the left and he had set them up rather poorly. That it was really El, that damn mariachi with no name, who saved him. On the other hand, without Sands, none of this would have happened at all. They would not be together in constant hiding, hurling abuse and fists and dropping sadistic quips at one another. They would not be there laughing at the others scream of terror at night the morning after (even though, against Sands' admission, he constantly has these.) Neither would they have been there to get drunk and spill out those vicious statements that hold so much depth and mean so much that one night, after a bloody battle and a few new scars (and the now demanding chore of disposing dead bodies), Sands found his body rammed against Mexico's outside brick wall with El's tongue forcefully down his throat.

He loathed himself for playing the submissive, though he is futile to do anything about it really. He is weaker and slender and more, unfairly, fragile and El's body just had too much fury for Sands that night. He particularly hated himself, though, for loosing the control and letting it be gained by El. He wanted to have his eyes back so he could tear them out again as El, on a handful of occasions later, forced his tongue once more down Sands' throat- each time a little more added until hands had roamed in unwanted places.

He supposes now that this really was inevitable. That if you looked at it carefully enough you'd have seen it; that Sands was really blind to it ever occurring (if you'll pardon the pun.) Which is why its laughable that Sand's enjoys this now; this sort of rough, frustrated groping that's all about dominating, of which they both know Sands will eventually lose, regardless of his admiral struggle. When two men are alone and both seriously fucked up, and constantly fighting the Cartels and CIA and every damn bean fucker who's out to get them for a cowardly reward, he doesn't blame himself for this happening; just of how it happened and of what position he's in from it. But he knows, with a cynical grin, that whatever loathing he's feeling for himself now, El is feeling it undoubtedly twice as hard.

He has, of course, betrayed Carolina. Which, if Sands can be bothered letting his mind continue in this way, is why the anger has been more... passionate, lately. And Sands does know; the bruises around his hips and neck and about every damn inch the guitar fucker have touched him or pushed him into, are proof.

Stubbing his cigarette out with spite, and smirking at El's growled, "Stop using the table- there's a perfectly good ashtray to your left gringo" Sands supposes he better begin at the beginning.

Or more specifically, the beginning of an end.

.SxE.SxE.SxE.

By all logical means, Sands should not be alive; although he's not too fussy about that now. There are days when he smirks in suppressed glee and pride that he's still here, still standing, and not even the knowledge of Barillo and his merry men of fuckers taking his eyes can suppress this. These are the days when he feels, oddly enough, more whole than ever. When he feels more invincible and undefeatable than ever.

Then, there are the days when he's so afraid and depressed and just damn well pissed off that he could eat his gun; but he knows by doing this, by giving into his own desire, he is only giving into _their_ desire.

They believed a blind man in the unfamiliar surroundings of Mexico would never survive; that he would hand himself over to American Federals and then it's bye-bye Agent Sands. What they didn't account for was that for a year and a half Mexico had been his beat and he had walked it.

They underestimated him.

And Sands would make sure that they paid for that costly little mistake.

Every last Cartel fucker and CIA imbecile that had screwed him over would pay.

Which is why, after six months of pure agony, hatred, self loathing and healing, and then another four of keeping his bearings and truly making it on his own, Sands found himself in the local bar.

The atmosphere is loud and a little crazy. The air is thick with the scent of smoke and dust and an overload of cheap musk perfume. Giggling female voices sing in the air and gruff men laugh with drunken amusement. The clatter of glass and silverware clink softly in the background of the soft strumming guitar and slightly off key husky tones and if Sands is correct then the set should be finishing in a quarter hour; just like it has for the last three Saturday nights.

He calls the bar tender over with a slender finger and waits resentfully. The small bar is warm and stuffy and Sands is dressed how he usually is these days; in all black. Snug, dark jeans, hip holsters and shoulder ones to match, (four guns in totally plus the one strapped to his left leg), a clingy, long-sleeved, open neck top and his thick black wraparound glasses. A menacing attire, yes, but unfortunately hot.

A weary voice jumps him from thoughts, "Sì Señor?" He notes the still full plate, "Is something wrong?"

He bites back a retort, knowing if the man is agitated he is less likely to comply, "The man killing the guitar, see him?" he waits for the expected nod, "I wish to speak to him after the set. So I want you to tell him some bullshit story that will get him to this table and in return you could find your self a nice hefty sum richer. Ya dig it?"

"Who _are_ you?" The tone is one of refusal.

He sighs exasperatedly, "Look, we can either do this the simple friendly way, or I can ask someone else and shoot you later."

"I will get him." He holds his hand out expectantly and Sands slips an envelope of notes beneath his plate and passes it carefully, but fluently, to the man. "Gracias Señor."

"Now fuck off."

He doesn't have to wait long, he's pleased to note.

-SxE-SxE-SxE-

El smiled and swayed for the patrons of the bar, bowing in many thanks as pesos are tossed to him and grinning at the young ladies whose eyes are glazed with drunken lust. As the song fades to the end he backs into the left wing to grab the bottle of water before the final song.

The ten second break was much longer than usual.

"Señor, a man at a table beckons you."

El frowned a little, unscrewing the bottles lid, "Did he say who he was, or what he represented?"

There's a hesitant pause as the man watches El gulp the water greedily, "No…no, he only said he could offer you something better than all this, for a lot more. If you were interested."

And El was interested. Very interested. The work here was enjoyable but not well paid. He barely had enough money for the basic needs and boredom was beginning to set in, and as the saying goes, 'idle hands are the devil's workshop.'

"I am needed back on stage," a small smile was the only acknowledgment El gave of greeting this mystery man.

A thin smile spread on the bar owners face, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, "He is sitting in the far left back. In the dark."

El did not thank him but instead waltzed slowly on stage, picking the first notes of a long song. The song allowed him to move freely around the floor, smiling at the flaunting women and nodding to the men that tipped. He dared to only get two tables from the one pointed out to him, but it was enough.

The man was alone and silent, leaning against the back of his chair, an arm outstretched holding a cigarette. His charisma was menacing and powerful; the darkness that enveloped him only heightening this. He was beautiful to look at, El noted distantly, and he tried to imagine the mans eyes behind those sleek glasses. An ashtray laid brim full to the right of him and an empty glass to the left. He was the picture of dark nonchalance and cynicism; he looked, almost, like a killer.

Chills ran up his spine and he turned to meet the spot light for the last bars of the song.

Up here, the man looked even more deadly but El had no reason to fear him. The bar owner, Antonio, was a good friend of his, who had kept his job open those weeks before the Day of the Dead when he was needed. He had no reason to lie to him, only reason to lie _for_ him and for that El was grateful; without Antonio, El would have long been dead.

He passed people by abruptly, nodding in thanks with the odd fake laugh to those who complimented him. He neared the table and its lone man and was struck by a sense of familiarity. He _knew_ this man, but he couldn't place him. He seemed so familiar… Someone he knew a long time ago.

"Hey El."

And then El knew. "No…It cannot be."

"I know, right?" He grinned brightly, "Who'd have thought. Not even a year on, and me and you just _happen_ to be in the same bar."

Confused, El floundered, "But he said…Antonio said… You wanted someone to play…"

He gestured to the empty chair in front of him, "Take a seat." A pause of silence and Sands sighed reluctantly, "If it makes you feel any better, he said no at first." He lit a cigarette flamboyantly, "And by the way, that wasn't an offer before. _Sit_."

El sat on the grounds of astonishment. He couldn't believe that Antonio, a friend of three years who had saved him from cartel many times before, would betray him like this. And for what? Money? His life? "What do you want?"

He smiled to the left, "Really, is that any way to great an old friend?" A hand silenced El's predictable 'you are no friend of mine.' "How 'bout something to eat or drink? You've been killing that guitar for an hour now." He beckoned the waitress over.

Disgruntled, and strangely calm, El replied, "I'm one of the best mariachi's around."

"Can you play slide?"

"What?"

He flicked the cigarette ash, "Then you're not the best. Now what'll you have?"

El glanced at the waitress and thought quickly. There was a chance he could escape Sands, "Tequila, no demasiado fuerte. Cuáles son las salidas traseras?" _Tequila, not too strong. What are the back exits?  
_  
"Dos. A la izquierda y derecho. Tres si usted cuenta la salida delantera." _Two. On the left and right. Three if you count the front exit_. His tone was light and airy, "I'll have the same, two of them actually, and strong, sugarbutt." He brandished out a few notes, in perfect change, effectively getting rid of her. "Gee El, that wasn't very bright of you."

El mentally hit himself. He should have known that Sands would know Spanish. He'd been here before the days of the Coup and, obviously, after. He would know the language well by now but El was still surprised at how flawless it was. "Why are you here?"

Sands' face rapidly changed into seriousness, his tone somber. "They're going to kill you, El-"

"-And they have sent you." He finished.

"No." He physically felt the relief pour off of El, "I'm not CIA anymore and I only kill those who fuck with me. I suggest you remember that."

El, of course, would, "Then?"

"I'm here to help you, because _you_ are going to help _me_."

"I am not helping you, because no one is out to kill me. I have no more enemies, I have cut my ties. I am simply a mariachi anymore. Not _The_ mariachi; just _a_ mariachi." Which was true. El had no business now in killing or revenge. For the last six months he had been as content as he would ever be, and it was known that El mariachi was only that; the guitar player of local.

"Oh my Christ." He stubbed the cigarette out furiously, "Would you listen to me? They're going to _kill_ you El, _tonight_. And I'm here to save you. Your knight in shining armor if you like."

"_If_ they are going to kill me, why are you helping?"

He snarled, "Get this through your thick fucking head El: They _are_ going to kill you; there's no 'ifs' to this. And by helping you, I help me. It's all about balance and control; you seeing the big picture yet?"

"No, I cannot" he spoke honestly, "So you are not here to kill me?" The waitress had unfortunately chosen this time to place the drinks on the table and from alarm spilled one of the tequilas.

"I suggest you pretend you're deaf sugarbutt, else I'd have to kill you. So toddle off would ya and forget the mess." He smiled thinly at her retreating form, "And no El, I'm not here to kill you, but I swear if you keep this up I'm going to."

"But I have cut all my ties. I am no longer-"

He waved the glass in the air, "Yeah-yeah, I know. You know that, they know that, Hell, _everyone_ knows that. Don't you think I'd have killed you a few months ago if that weren't the case? The problem is El," and he nudged Els drink across to his hand, "is that you were once _El Mariachi_ and frankly, you still are to them."

"Who is them?" he ignored the glass against his hand.

"Jesus El. Where the fuck have you been? Listen, you're a threat okay? Just get that concept around your head first. You're a big threat too them. It doesn't matter that you've laid low for a few months. Once the shit hits the fan you're gonna get that damn pride and honor of yours in the way and try to stop 'em. And believe me; the shit is going to hit the fan. And badly."

El stared dumbfounded, the ice cold of the glass the only sensation he could feel. Twenty minutes ago he had been but a humble mariachi. Now he could be starting on his old ways again as, it seemed, a fiasco was about to begin. What was stranger still, El marveled, was that Agent (or ex he dully noted) Sands was here to help him. Regardless if doing so, somehow, meant helping himself; Sands was here to help El.

This is where the story truly begins.

**Feedback is greatly appreciated. I'd like to continue this, but only if there's an interest really. **

**This is just a peek to next chapter too:  
**_This time, when Sands trained the gun on El, he clicked the safety off, "I suggest you drive or I'll blow out your knee caps and you can drive in excruciating pain. That's if I don't decide to leave you here dying from blood loss though. Comprende?"_


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning: **For language and hints of male-male and for future violence and Sands/El slash.

**I need to apologies now for my lack of knowledge on Mexican Geography. I'm trying to be as accurate as I can, but please forgive me if I've stuffed it up completely. If anyone knows of a good website, please tell me; I have crappy ones.**

**Also, to help with the setting of this, OUATiM was shot in Culiacan (I think) and Sands' aim is to get as far away from their as physically possible for the moment- so he'll be jumping around a bit until he sets them up properly.**

**Stockholm Syndrome  
Chapter Two:  
**  
El stood in vague shock and disorientation outside the back of the bar.

"You armed?"

"I told you, not since-"

An irritated sound escaped Sands, "Alright. I have spares. But since you're dumb enough not to carry one, I get to have some fun." He grinned and trained the gun on El, "Get in the car fucker. You're driving."

El wasn't phased by the gun; he knew there was no intention to kill behind it. "I can't drive."

For a split second the gun fell, but it was back in place quickly enough. This time his finger curled tightly on the trigger. "I don't think you really have a choice, _El_."

"I do not have my license," he smiled slightly, "And I am not, let us say, the best drive."

Sands stood in shock, face blank. "You have _got_ to be kidding. You _have_ to be freakin' kidding me! You _don't_ drive? And I suppose your mother drives you around. Tell me El, does she clothe and feed you too? Wipe your ass for you?"

"My mother is dead."

Sands smiled and stuck his gun in his pants, handle showing, "Yeah? Mine too. Killed her all by myself." There was child-like pride in his voice that greatly disturbed El and he wasn't sure if Sands was lying or not. With Sands, you never knew, and he found his anger for the disrespect towards his mother subside.

"You..."

"Yeah, that's right. But that can save for a rainy day. Right now, you need to get in the car and drive us to Guanajuato."

"Guanajuato?!"

"Place of Frogs I believe it's translated to. We need to go over the hill and far, far away."

El snarled, "I told you, I can't-"

Sands seemed to have finally given up his patience and slammed his fist on the car, "Jesus El, you can drive a little though," he didn't wait for answer, "You can start it up and drive it straight and turn it left and stop it and maybe even reverse it. And that's all we need to get out of here. No flashy car dives or wheelies or exhilarating speed- which would be very cool, mind you- but just some basic driving skills."

El gritted his teeth at being mocked, "Why don't you drive then?"

This time, when Sands trained the gun on El, he clicked the safety off, "I suggest you drive or I'll blow out both your knee caps and you can drive in excruciating pain. That's if I don't decide to leave you here dying from blood loss first. Comprende?"

"Sì," El got hesitantly in the car, Sand walking around and getting in the other side. Missing, to El's great amusement, the car floor with his foot and stumbling. His laughter was muted by the swift aim of Sands' gun when Sands finally climbed in.

The gun never moved away.

-SxE-SxE-SxE-

They stopped at the first hotel in Tepic after nearly five long hours in the car.

They did not make for good road companions.

Where El liked to talk to drive away the bare minutes, Sands did not; save the odd question or two. Sands did not like long conversations. Nor did he like long silences. You could never tell what a person was thinking. Constant talking, though, served just as bad as silence. For the talking was only babble which hid was the person was truly thinking. No, what Sands found worked best was a random question which alarmed the companion every half-hour or so.

El also liked the radio on. He found music calmed him down considerably and if Sands did not want to talk then the radio made for a (better, El mused) companion. But of course, Sands promptly turned it off and the second El turned it back on Sands had rammed the butt of the gun into the radio; effectively breaking it.

El liked to drum his fingers on the steering wheel to a silent tune. Sands said it annoyed him, but the sound of breaking fingers did not. So El stopped.

El liked to whistle softly. Sands said a whistle made a great shape for the barrel of a gun to sit neatly in.

El liked to hum. Sands didn't care for it.

El liked to play car games like _I spy_.

This time Sands pulled the trigger. Missing El's head by only a few inches and shattering the left window.

The only thing they agreed on was not talking of their personal life. What had or hadn't happened during those ten months, give or take, when they hadn't seen each other. It was the only rule El liked.

So it really was a relief when they stopped at the first hotel.

Sands chucked his wallet to El, "Be a dear and rent out a room, second floor if you can."

"I am not your slave," he snarled.

"No? Then why ya getting out of the car El?"

El heard his laughter all the way to the reception desk.

-SxE-SxE-SxE-

The wait for El was unbelievably excruciating. There were so many flaws in this scheme of Sands', so many errors that he had tried and tried again to work out but had still remained. So much could go wrong and the only thing that would prevent this was trust.

The word alone made Sands shudder.

He didn't think he could ever trust anyone, not with his home life and prior life style, but then Ajedrez, that beautiful bitch, had entered his little world and he knew things that he never thought he would.

He understood true compassion and kindness. Knew that touch and affection could feel good, was_ allowed_ to feel good for the right reasons; not just for a quick fuck or some form of control. He began to receive real love and thus give it.

He learnt to trust another human being completely, wholly and utterly. Trust them with his deepest fears and secrets and torments. Trust them with his great plans and little schemes. Trust them with his lifestyle and job; trust with his damn life even.

And then Ajedrez, the little rich bitch and fake had thrown it back in his face, turned everything upside down. Lost him the money, lost him the promotion, lost him his hard earned identity. Lost him his eyes. A fugitive in his own country almost, unwanted by every state of America; every human being.

Hell, Mexico would have thrown him out long ago, but he was the "Shadow Killer" here. (Sands smirked at the corny, yet pleasing, name) He was the man to be left alone and never crossed. He was respected; in fear, in money, in lust and even admiration (Granted, Sands grimaced, it was from a ten or twelve year old boy, but admiration nonetheless.) He killed with little reason yet astounding logic and he killed silently but noticeably. In fact, for the last few months, it had been Sands who had kept Mexico relatively clean of any major trouble.

And to think, he was the blind one.

Sands knee tapped rapidly up and down, "C'mon El baby, don't let me down."

If El had done a runner, he was screwed. If El had called the authorities, he was _really_ screwed. If El had done a runner and managed to be captured then Sands would simply find El. Find him and kill him. And then himself. He had placed so much at stake for this one operation that he wouldn't forgive the bean fucker, or himself, for screwing up.

He reached five hundred and kicked the glove box.

"Fuck you El!"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sands exhaled and opened the car door. There was always the chance, the slight, _slight_, chance that El had already gone to their room and was just waiting for Sands. After all, El didn't know Sands couldn't see.

He didn't bother locking the door but only stood in total stillness and silence, letting his surrounding engulf his senses. He had been here before, eighteen months ago almost, and he could vaguely remember the layout. The reception was only a few hundred meters from the car park; but what direction had they parked in?

Head cocked to the side, Sands listened above the wind.

A door creaked on his right, wooden frame banging the wall with a thud and Sands hurled to face this. He could hear laughter coming from the same direction and behind a car pulling up. To his left, water sounded in large splashes; Sands frowned, a pool then. Dandy. A person approached him from behind and Sands inwardly flinched, turning casually around in acknowledgment. He smiled and nodded like he knew the other would and then waited a moment, counting the ten paces until he could no longer hear the man on the gravel.

That way to the front then.

It took the ten paces and another eight plus the detour he had taken when he had nearly been run over, to get to the reception building. All in all, Sands was rather proud of himself.

He didn't walk or act like a blind man. He refused to. Granted, some things were very hard and complicated and took a hell of a lot of patience and time he didn't know he had, but he got there eventually. Some things took routine to know so flawlessly, others took continuous practice until he eventually was able to decipher different places, sounds, voices, walks. His hearing was immaculate. Always had been; but more so now than ever.

And boy had it saved him.

He entered the building and walked forward, remembering the distance from counter bench to door wasn't very long. "Speak English?"

There was a moment's pause- in which Sands prayed someone was actually there- and then, "Sì Señor."

"Peachy." His left forearm came up to lie on the table, bent up at the elbow, chin resting on the palm, "Tell me, did you see a man come in here? A little taller than me, bigger, darker, dumber, boring..."

"Señor... I am sorry…"

Sands sighed, "He wears a leather jacket with a scorpion on the back. Has a thick accent. He come in here at all?"

"No sì"

_Well at least you've ditched that obnoxious jacket El_. "You sure? He carries a gun, maybe a guitar. He's a mariachi." A still silence followed his words

"Well have you seen _any_ man that's come in here in the last half hour?"

"Sì."

_Jingle fucking bells, is this guy for real. How hard is it to answer one si-_  
A grin spread across Sands face. _Jingle all the way baby. _"He jingles."

Jingle bells..

Jingle..

"Que?"

"Jingles. Jangles. Makes a lot of noise. Has chains. Sounds like a tambourine."

"Oh! Sì, Sì Senor. I have seen him. Not long ago. He booked a room for two nights and went up stairs. Tipped very well."

_Tipped? Oh El, do you remember nothing? I don't tip unless I plan on getting it back.._ "What room number."

"I cannot say Senor, it is aga-" A glint of metal and a soft click had him sweating, "room 117. Second floor. The elevator is to your left"

" Gracias. You've been oh-so helpful" He smiled cruelly and made for the elevator.

Perhaps El was not as stupid as Sands remembered.

SxE-SxE-SxE

Getting to the apartment was nowhere near as difficult as one would assume. Once on level two, Sands simply ran his hand over the first door and felt the cool touch of plated numbers of 105. Odd numbers to the left then. He had then felt the numbers of the second door and continued upwards, knowing the numbers would only grow larger.

He walked down the middle of the hall, in a casual gait, and mentally counted the doors. When he reached close enough, he came into contact with the wall and trailed a hand down the side until he reach the assumed doorknob. Two solid ones and a solid seven told Sands he had reached the correct door.

He could barely conceal his excitement.

Sands stood outside the door for sometime, listening as El moved around the room. He tried to imagine a sense of the room as El hit the bed close to the door, stomped the four paces to a table with draws and then the two and a half across to the left to a sliding door. After a moment, the sliding door opened again ( the sound of a flushing toilet fading in the background) and the bed creaked from El's weight. The switch of a television sounded immediately afterwards from the right, indicating it was opposite the bed.

A sketchy idea of the room, and not at all encouraging, but it was all he had to work with.

_It's Showtime baby!  
_  
He counted in his head, drew his gun and with as much strength as he could gather, slammed his entire body into the door, forcing it open. "Honey! I'm home!"

"Madre de Dios!"

He trained the gun on the place El's voice had sounded from and smiled, head cocked, "Dinner ready?"

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Me El? Oh-ho, that _is_ rich. Who's the one who left me in the car all by my lonesome?"

On the bed spread, infuriated by being caught so off guard and unaware, and his anger towards Sands, El's fist clenched knuckle white. He snarled, "You are blaming me because you did not bother to follow me up?"

"No," he gritted, "I'm just merely pointing out the fact that as I was under the assumption you had done a fast one on me, I'm now entitled to kill you."

El laughed, "Then all of this," his spread his hand wide, "Would have been for nothing. Utterly pointless."

Sands smiled, "Very good El. Seems you do know how to keep alive. First you don't do a runner on me but actually book a room, and then you manage to verbally get yourself out of a life-death situation. Well done."

"Do not mock me."

"Wouldn't dream of it El." He turned a little, acting as if he was taking the room in full view, "Nice place you got here , though I suppose a nice big tipper like you deserves such a place."

"You did not say I couldn't tip."

"And it shows how very little you know me. I don't pay El, and I definitely don't tip. So I'll be getting that money back," He pulled the trigger back, "One way or another."

El ducked and covered his head as the headboard splintered, gun powder forcing his eyes to water. When his heart had slowed down, and he had gained his voice back again, he spoke in soft tones, "That is the second time you have tried to kill me. I'm beginning to wonder if your intention was to really save me at all."

Sands took a cautious step forward, then another, knee hitting the bed, "Get the bags from the car El, and then ask and see if Benjamin Barker has a message at the reception, will ya." It was not a question.

His legs swung reluctantly over the bed, "Benjamin Barker?"

"Not a big fan of musicals and legends? Shame that, I'm rather passionate about them but that's just between me and you of course. Now, Benjamin Barker was a naïve little barber who turned evil with anger and revenge. Slashed peoples throats, turned them into meat pies. Pretty cool guy actually, I think you'd like him."

El, whose hand had instinctively gone to his throat, mumbled, "He is not real…"

"Well he's dead now El, but he might have been real, might not have been. Who knows? But I can show you all the neat little tricks he did with his razor blade if you don't hurry the fuck up and get the bags and message. That message is _very_ vital to us El, and I'd hate to be the man who doesn't deliver said message."

"How do you know I will come back?"

"Simple. Curiosity. You want to know who's trying to kill you and why; at least more specifically than what I've already given you. You want to know their motives for it and what will happen to your precious little town if they get what they want. And you want to know that if you help me take 'em down this one time, will it stop forever."

"And will it?"

Sands turned, his aura dark and almost wishful, "Just get the message El." His voice was so soft that El had to lean closer to hear it and the tone was remorseful that El knew something in that cold blooded, manipulative, callous killer had changed. That whatever power and corruption and enjoyment that once was, was now replaced with anguish and self loathing and fear.

Because of this, El knew he'd come back and wondered if Sands knew just exactly why he would, "What is it about?"

Sands kicked his boots of, and for the first time, El saw a genuine smile, "Did you ever get friendly with Barillo, El? 'Cause I made that mistake once, and my gods did it screw me over big time. So now it's my turn to screw him over, and if that message is of acceptance then, my little mariachi, we do us some balance restoring"

**Thank you for the kind words. It really made me smile and I'm rapt there's some interest in this. Sorry for the delay too, but I hope the length of the chapter made up for it.**

**Again if anyone's as lost as I was, Sands and El go from Culiacan to Guanajuato, making a stop at Tepic (which is in Nayarit) as Culiacan to Guanajuato is over 9 hours long. . . Here's to hoping I'm somewhere close.**


End file.
